


Pour que l'amour me quitte

by Cerberusia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Incest, Infidelity, M/M, Samhain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-13
Updated: 2013-11-13
Packaged: 2018-01-01 10:20:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1043662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerberusia/pseuds/Cerberusia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Samhain night on the reserve; Bill comes for a visit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pour que l'amour me quitte

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Camille's song of the same name; it means 'So that love would leave me'. Written for samhain_smut; beta'ed by the lovely B.

There's the yearly celebration on the reserve, of course: a bonfire, plenty of alcohol, apple-bobbing which gets steadily more ridiculous as the participants get steadily drunker and therefore _un_ steady. When wiry little Padraig Ahearne falls straight _into_ the bucket, they collectively decide it's time to turn in. Early start tomorrow, like every day.

The night is still fairly young when Charlie gets back to his house, a slightly ramshackle but clean two-up-two-down near the palisade which marks the edge of the 'village', as they call it, the collection of wranglers houses and storehouses in the middle of the reserve.

There's a light in the window. It could be a threat, but it's more likely someone's so drunk they've wandered into Charlie's place by mistake - none of them ever lock their doors. It's probably Evgeny. He goes in, kicking off his boots, mindful of the floor in case there's vomit around, and finds his visitor at the kitchen table.

It's Bill.

"'Eyup," he offers mildly. "Haven't seen you much lately." The tension in the kitchen is so thick that you wouldn't need a knife, but a cleaver.

"Charlie," says Bill. He scoots his chair back and stands. "Charlie I'm—" He stops, standing in the middle of Charlie's kitchen with its roughly-plastered walls and wooden table and looking helplessly, hopelessly out of place.

"Bill, c'mere," says Charlie, holding his hands out at his sides, open-palmed. Bill shuffles towards him, head down, and Charlie catches his shoulders when he gets close enough. "Bill, what's the matter? Why'd you fly all the way here?" He knows, he knows, but he can't—

"Charlie," says Bill for the third time, and puts his hands on Charlie's hips. "You know what's wrong. You always do." He presses their foreheads together, and Charlie has to close his eyes. "C'mon, it's Samhain."

At this point, Charlie should ask something like 'where's Fleur?'. But he doesn't care about the answer, doesn't care about Fleur, doesn't care about anything except the fact that Bill's come back to him for a night, _this_ night, and he'd be a fool to take the offer but an even bigger one to let it go.

His hands slides from Bill's shoulder to cup the base of his skull, feeling the delicate cervical vertebrae, aware of the thin veil between life and death tonight, the night when ghosts of all kinds are at their strongest.

Bill kisses him, the familiarity almost painful, and for a long moment they just cling to one another, no air between them, no room for anyone else.

They fuck over the kitchen table which Charlie made himself some years ago, chopping and polishing and assembling the wood. They didn't do anal often back in the day, and when they did Charlie usually topped, but Charlie wants something to remember this by, so they draw out the kissing and groping for as long as they can bear it before Charlie ends up bracing himself on his arms, shirt over the back of the chair and trousers around his ankles as Bill whispers the spell.

He's out of practice, they both are, so it's not exactly comfortable when Bill at last eases into him; but, filled with his brother at last, Charlie doesn't care. He flies high on endorphins, Bill's body heavy on top of his the only thing weighing him down to earth. White sparks skitter up his spine, a pleasurable ache in his thighs, and when Bill gets a hand on the hot blood-pulse between his legs, he doesn't even care that there's no rhythm to his strokes. Bill is moaning in his ear, or maybe saying something; Charlie can't hear him over the roaring rush of blood.

Afterwards, they lie there for a long time, one atop the other, not speaking. Charlie interlaces their fingers, his tanned and Bill's freckled, and does his best not to think of anything at all. He breathes; he breathes out. He breathes out his desire, he breathes out his longing, and watches them rise like smoke to slip through the boundary where it is thinnest.

It won't hold, of course: you can only truly give up your emotions to the dead on Samhain if you're ready and willing to let them go. But this, he prays to the ghosts who every Samhain take his unspeakable, unfulfillable desires, will tide him over for another year.


End file.
